


Festival

by naye



Series: Whaleverse [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, Team, Whaleverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2008-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye/pseuds/naye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching his friends by bonfire and starlight, John begins to understand the true magic of the Athosians' joyful festival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Festival

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Clear And Different Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504) by [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye/pseuds/naye), [Sholio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio). 



> This is one of the short side stories that we wrote in the course of working on [A Clear and Different Light](http://sgabigbang.talkoncorners.net/?view=fic&id=53). It was inspired by a brief flashback paragraph that Sholio wrote - one so full of team love and atmosphere that I could not resist elaborating on it.

The festival is bonfires scorching islands of light and heat in the Athosian night. It is thick blankets covering dew-wet grass, and the colorful melody of flutes and drums and laughter twining around every conversation.

Together, the dancing, jostling, lounging people gathered here tonight are creating magic. Though different from anything John has ever known, it is as powerful and true as any spell. The air is alive with it, and he feels it tug at him with every smile he sees. He can't study it, or capture it with formulas or words, but he knows, _knows_, that this is not magic meant to be used or manipulated.

It is meant to be lived.

A cool breeze ruffles his hair, and the sweet spice of the tielle tree's late flowers mingle with the smells of woodsmoke and grass and damp wool. John leans back on his elbows, and allows himself to relax in the moment.

Four paper lanterns in rich summer hues add their soft glow to the fires' radiance, announcing their presence, their place. One lantern for each of them, though only John remains on the blanket Teyla brought for them.

Ronon went to get them food, and Teyla pulled a reluctant Rodney into the dance with her. John can't see them now, swirling skirts and giddy children blocking his view, but it's okay. The night is safe and soft, with Teyla's people and their magic standing guard.

A tangle of young dancers flutter by, extending hands and smiles to John, offering to draw him into their circle. He is not yet ready to go from observer to participant, so he shakes his head. "Waiting for my friends," he explains, pitching his voice to carry over the music. The chorus of disappointed noises takes him aback. That their invitation was more than a polite gesture -- he stares after them as they weave back into the dance.

This place, this moment -- its magic -- is causing something to shift. He can't put it into words, but he can feel it. Sharp-edged memories brush against old scars, and when he breathes they grind against each other. He blinks.

Through the smoke in his eyes, he catches a glimpse of movements so familiar in their grace that he can pick them out among a hundred others. Teyla's hair is down, copper twined with the flames' glow, and her tattoos are shining, vibrant. Her feet strike the the drums' pulse on the ground, and her delicate fingers are laced with Rodney's blunt ones.

Teyla is clearly leading, but as they come closer, skirting the flickering circle of light and shadow, John can see that Rodney follows in her steps without prompting. The fire's heat is making Rodney's soft hair stick to his neck in sweaty whorls, and his mouth moves around predictable protests and complaints. But he is not slowing down, and there is a light in his eyes that has nothing to do with the flames.

The skirling flutes climb in pitch, the drums beat like a racing heart, and John's world narrows to the sight of Teyla and Rodney twirling closer, their graceful steps in perfect synchrony. Teyla beams, mischievous pleasure in her grin as Rodney's face softens in a poorly hidden smile. He grumbles something that makes her throw her head back in a laugh, and everything raw and broken in John is swallowed by a joy so fierce that he slumps back from the force of it. It is as if he had tried to take the heat and light of a thousand bonfires into his heart -- he can feel it blazing through him, flowing out of him, and becoming a part of the night.

The music urges the dancers into a triumphant crescendo. Teyla and Rodney flicker by, and John wants to gather them in his arms. Wants to stand between them and everything that has ever hurt them, because they should always be like they are now. The bonfire feeling swells to a sun, and John knows that he would give anything, _anything_ to protect them.

A rush of breathless laughter follows the last explosion of notes that mark the end of the dance, and Teyla and Rodney come tumbling down on the blanket next to John.

"This," Rodney pants, wiping a hand across his sweaty face "is why I avoid crazy wiggling about in the dry!"

"Our dances are not crazy wiggling, Rodney," Teyla chides him with mock solemnity. Her cheeks are flushed. "They are _traditional_."

A shadow rustles above them. "Nice wiggling, McKay," Ronon grins. He lands deftly between their recovering dancers' sprawling limbs. There's a jug of ruus wine under his arm, and he's got a bristling handful of skewers with spiced meat and hot vegetables.

Rodney shoots Ronon a half-hearted glare before getting distracted by the festival food. While Ronon makes sure they all get what share he deems fair, John pours wine in the heavy, crystalline goblets that Teyla almost never uses. They sit together, and eat and watch the tide of dancers shift with the music.

When the brightest star of the Lantern hangs in the sky right above their heads, the instruments fall silent. The last of their food is gone, and John looks around to see everyone sitting down, on blankets and carpets and coats. Silhouettes against the firelight -- lanterns in the dark.

In the new silence, John can hear the crackle of the fires, and the chirruping chorus of night insects and amphibians. He glances at Rodney and Teyla in turn, and finds them watching the night. Calm, but waiting. Behind them, Ronon's feathers rustle in the smoky breeze.

The first voice is that of an old woman. Frail, but clear, she sings a greeting. One by one, others join in. There must be an order to it, but John is too captivated by the melody to work it out. He notices Teyla's face lighting up in a smile, and then she is singing, too.

After that, John doesn't need to look. He doesn't need to think. The song is like the magic of the festival -- it is there to be _lived_, not analyzed. He leans back to listen, but stops when his shoulder brushes against Rodney's.

"Better get comfortable," Rodney mutters softly. "The Song of Renewal goes on for however long Teyla and the others feel it should." The words should be sarcastic, but John notices that he doesn't quite manage the necessary disdainful twist of his lips. They keep curling up in a smile.

Teyla pats John on the leg, and, still singing, nods in clear approval of Rodney's advice.

Ronon is already stretching out, his wings tucked safely against his back. Rodney seems to think the Satedan takes up too much of the blanket, because there is a brief, silent scuffle. Seeing the available room shrink alarmingly, John comes to the strategic conclusion that just this once, personal space is probably overrated. He sinks back against the others with a grin, igniting another burst of shifting and jostling.

Finally, they are all settled. Teyla sits with her legs crossed and her back straight at the edge of the blanket, watching them. Ronon is lounging at the opposite end of the blanket, and he's allowed Rodney to claim him for a pillow. Rodney has his legs drawn up to avoid kicking Teyla, and John has ended up with his back against Rodney's knees.

The fires burn lower. A trickle of softly glowing, swaying colors mark where mothers and fathers carry sleepy children home, lanterns still clutched tightly in their small fists. Around John, voices rise and fall in an ever-changing harmony which is like the seasons of Athos, like the movement of the infinite stars overhead.

John means to stay awake, to listen, to live the Renewal. But the night is growing cooler, and Teyla's voice is getting softer. He relaxes against the comfortable warmth of Rodney and Ronon -- just for a moment, just to rest his eyes. Moments later, he is drifting into sleep more deep and restful than any he can remember.

The festival is a heart so full of joy that it blazes like a sun. It is a night when old hurts and ever-present worries drift away like ashes on the wind, and crumble at a touch. It is a song only the stars are awake to hear, and a sheltering wing extended like a blanket.


End file.
